No One Has to Know
by tea and leaves
Summary: When a newly-outed Santana Lopez is kicked out of the house, she enrolls at Dalton Academy as a boy. But her roommate Blaine is hard to fool, and the new kid Kurt promises to be even more trouble. Klaine/Brittana.
1. Dalton

**A/N: **

**I've never written something like this. I usually don't do high-school centered fics, but this all came to me in a burst of inspiration, so, I thought I'd go with it! This will probably be long and there might be long stretches in between updates. You've been warned!**

**Oh, and I own nothing. (****Not even a single sock!)**

* * *

><p>Santana Lopez had never liked the sun. In fact, she hated it.<p>

She hated the way it made her makeup melt. She hated that it was taboo to look at. She hated that it was life-giving. She hated the sickly waves it made in the air. But most of all, she hated the shadows it created.

She'd read once that little kids can't see shadows. Just patches of color. Their whole world is color patches and nothing else.

So shadows bugged her. They were always lies, either too big or too small, too long or too short. They reminded her that she actually existed, that she could stand in the way of the sun and see a replica of herself stretched or foreshortened on the sidewalk. And they stood in the way of the world's true color.

Yes, she hated them both. The sun and the shadows. She wanted a big blank piece of world. That's all she asked. A world without the highs and the lows.

_I walk around so mad at the world, when I'm really just fighting myself..._

She tried so hard to find the right words. To say them the right way. But it hadn't mattered.

_I want to stop fighting..._

For a split second, she thought her family had gotten it. But she had just misread their shock, because they hadn't.

_Disgrace to the family._

_Secrets are secrets for a reason._

_Selfish selfish selfish._

_Leave. Don't come back..._

And now here she was, sitting in the Lima Greyhound terminal, hating the sun and the shadows, unsure whether she should go East or West.

* * *

><p>One Week Later<p>

Santana went down the sidewalk, dragging her coat behind her and walking with too much hip. She was exhausted, there was mascara in her eyes, and she was hungrier than she had ever been, including when Coach Sylvester had her on that ipecac-and-bran diet.

She had six dollars. She glanced around. The section of Westerville she was in was residential - no McDonalds around here. The lawns were perfect, the houses gleaming in the sun like lighthouses. Trophy wives in pantsuits walked their tiny dogs and the whir of appliances could be heard in the summer air just like crickets.

She kept walking, but her suitcase was heavy and the sun was beating a red tattoo on her back. She reached her limit after ten minutes, and knew she was no closer to food. Was there a bus stop? Did these Westerville people even know what a bus was? Was that seriously a limo that just drove by?

She sighed and slumped onto her suitcase. If she had been in a commercial, this would have been the moment that the coca cola oasis rose before her in an icy wave. But she was just Santana, and this was just a street in Wherever, Ohio, and she was alone for the first time.

She looked around for somewhere she could go lie down, and spotted tennis courts - a park? She forced herself up and walked towards them, and was faced with a huge red and blue sign.

Property of Dalton Preparatory School for Boys - No Trespassing

Santana hissed. She strained to see through the bushes and picked out a large brick building. She could see figures running on a distant field, playing lacrosse. She stared at Dalton in wonder.

_I found the gayest place in Ohio._

Then she hitched her bags back up and strode briskly away. She had only made it a few feet when it hit her. Dalton. Dalton was a boy's school. It was a haven of protection. No girls, no lady sex. She wouldn't have a thing to worry about. She could be a boy.

_That is the most idiotic thing I've ever come up with._

Yes, it was a bad idea. Anyone would have said so. Things like that didn't work. It was like taking a dead cat, having it stuffed, and presenting it to a child as a new kitten for their seventh birthday. She simply couldn't pull it off. She couldn't look like a boy. She couldn't talk like a boy (well, maybe the Dalton boys, since they were as gay as rainbow cotton candy.) And she couldn't smell like a boy. But what she could do was keep secrets.

If she could wave a wand and pull of the rest, there was no chance anyone would find out. She'd kept her sexuality from everyone for years, and this was the same principle. The only difference was that this time, she'd be hiding who she wasn't.

She didn't want to be a boy. She loved being a girl. She loved her perfect silicone boobs and her lips like rose petals. But she did have a boy's sexuality, and that was close enough. Dalton would be like any boys' school - a churning pot of horny teenagers - and for the first time, she'd be able to join in. She could comment on _girls._

That is, if the Dalton boys weren't all gay. She glanced back at the red-and-blue pinstriped sign and cringed a little. There had to be _some_ straight boys...

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the disgusting money-sweat she'd produced while clenching her six dollars. Maybe it was because she had a blister the size of Africa on her foot, and couldn't walk any further. But in ten minutes, she was standing in the Dalton principal's office.

She had ditched all but her most necessary possessions in the parking lot near a Navigator (who drove that kind of thing?) and made herself look attractive again. Then she'd strutted in. Heads turned. The Dalton boys, as it turned out, were not all gay. They looked at her like she was a french fry and they were starving migratory seagulls.

She smirked as she passed each one of them and went into the principal's office without invitation. He was a chubby forty-something, with comb-over hair and a permanently-panicked expression. He looked at her in complete fear, and then shooed two boys out of the office. They shot her flirty grins and she grinned back. Then she turned to the principal, a lioness.

"I'm Santana Lopez." She extended her hand and he shook it. "I would like to inquire about an opening."

"There are no openings Miss, uh, Lopez," said the principal, pushing his glasses up on his face. "And there's a waiting list besides."

"My brother needs a place at this school," she said softly, sitting down. "You can either accept him, or live with the consequences"

"Excuse me, Miss, but there is no place for your brother, and your threats will get you nowhere."

"My brother is smart. He'll be the first in our family to go to college." Santana crossed her legs and leaned forward. "And if you squash that dream by forcing him to stay in public school, my ex-con father will pull your heart out through your ass."

"I'm, I'm sorry but-"

"Make a place," she said. "Hand me the paperwork."

The principal grumbled, and then handed her a stack of papers. She began to fill them out with fraudulent information, biting back a smile. Then she reached the financial part.

"The tuition is $3300 a term?" she asked, reeling.

"Yes, that's correct Ms. Lopez," the principal replied. "We do have financial aid available."

"But that accesses tax information, right?"

"Yes, it does."

"No, we won't be needing assistance."

She signed the form and handed it over. Sancho Lopez was officially enrolled at Dalton Preparatory School for Boys.

* * *

><p><em>Who throws out a lifetime of clothing in a prep school parking lot?<em>

This was the question Kurt Hummel asked when he trudged out to retrieve his jacket from his car and found Santana's clothing littering the curb. Cheetah scarves in trees. Fantastic red heels growing like strange mushrooms.

_This is like a dark wonderland..._

Kurt tore his gaze away and grabbed his jacket out of the back seat. He walked back to the school and sat down in history class. It was an Indian summer, the sky cornflower blue and the air as warm as fresh bread, but Mrs. Garrett insisted that everyone wear the jacket. Kurt draped his over the back of his chair, hoping he might get away with that.

It was his first year at Dalton, his first week actually, and he didn't know how to behave. He was socially conscious, good in new situations, and smart enough to pick up on what mattered. But Dalton was a complete riddle to him. Maybe his beliefs about equal opportunity weren't shared by his rich peers. Maybe there was a code that no one spoke to gay students so that Dalton wouldn't come off as a stereotypical sanctuary. Maybe his voice, which was unusually high, threw people off.

He wasn't sure, but so far only two students had talked to him - his roommate, noncommittally, and a boy from down the hall, who was too handsome and sweet to even think about.

Kurt came to Dalton to get away from bullies. And as promised, he hadn't been thrown into the lockers yet. He also hadn't been embraced.

_What did you expect?_ he asked himself as Mrs. Garrett came into the room._ For everyone to like you? For someone to love you?_ The boy down the hall popped into his mind. _To fit in?_

He had thought those things. He thought Dalton would recognize his potential, all the potential that was waiting for its one bright moment. He thought his world would change in an instant.

He tried not to let disappointment into his voice when his dad called. His parents (that is, his dad and Carole Hudson) were giving up a lot to send him to Dalton. He was old enough to know that the world didn't work in light switches and changing dimensions. And he _was_ grateful.

But he wasn't happy.

Mrs. Garrett called the class to order. Kurt already knew about the American Revolution, and his mind wouldn't let go of that cheetah scarf, blowing in the oak trees like a kitschy omen...

Who on earth had left that there?

* * *

><p>Blaine still wasn't unpacked, and it seemed the Dalton dorms had shrunk since last year. There wasn't enough closet space, and his twin bed wasn't fitting where it was supposed to. It was a twin. Couldn't a twin bed fit anywhere?<p>

He had just let out an animal roar of frustration when he noticed, in an off-center mirror, that the principal was standing in his doorway. He straightened up, slightly red, and looked at Principal Mathers.

"Good morning, Principal."

"Good morning, Mr. Anderson. Is this a bad time to talk?"

Blaine shook his head. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no - I do hope you're settling in well." The principal cleared his throat. "In confidence, there is a small problem. We have an unexpectedly high number of enrolled students this year, and though you were promised a single dorm, you'll have to share."

Blaine looked around the miniscule dorm. "Will I get to share a different room?"

"Unfortunately, no - this is the only one. We'll have movers come in and take the wardrobe away for a bit more space." The principal smiled ruefully. "It promises to be an interesting year."

"Who'll I be rooming with?" asked Blaine, wondering if all the rearranging would miraculously make his new roommate the cute boy from down the hall.

"It's someone called Sancho," said the principal, his mouth curling at the edges like he tasted something sour. "He comes from a very interesting family."

Blaine raised his eyebrows. "Sancho?"

"He's Hispanic, yes...he was a," the principal gave a little cough, "late addition. So, buck up, Mr. Anderson, and good luck!"

Blaine nodded like he was supposed to.

This was not happening. No no. Not to him. He had worked very hard freshman year to be one of the few sophomores with a single dorm. He'd received a 3.9 GPA, had completed 250 hours of community service, had volunteered in the library, and now Sancho was going to step all over it? D_on't be a rich kid. Don't ask for too much._ Cooper's words rang in his ears. _No one will like you if you complain. You aren't really worth it anyway._

Blaine's life had been a succession of disappointments. His parents were very wealthy, but he'd learned not to expect much. Cooper's words weren't new to him. He'd been telling himself the same things all his life. _No one will like you if you speak up. Keep your head down._

He hoped Dalton would be different, and it was until now. If he worked hard, he got what he wanted, until now. This retraction stung more than a little bit.

But there it was. Buck up. Head down. He kept unpacking.

* * *

><p>It turned out that Westerville did have buses and bus stops. Santana found the one nearest to Dalton and rode into Columbus. She went into the first hair place she found.<p>

It was small, hot as an oven, and had strange neon paint all over the windows. The paint was melting in the sun, dripping like alien sweat...and there was only one hairdresser. She was tall, muscled and blond, and Santana trusted that she would know how to give a masculine haircut.

Santana cleared her throat and the woman looked up from the counter. "Are you the two o' clock?"

Santana balked. This place required reservations?

"Um, no, I'm a walk-in."

"Ah!" The woman spat out a wad of chewing tobacco. "Sitcha down."

Santana marched to a cracked leather chair, wondering briefly what those about to face the firing squad felt like, and sat down. The woman came behind her.

"What do you want done?"

"I want," Santana began, stomach clenching, "a boy's haircut." The woman met Santana's eyes in the mirror and Santana blurted out, "Cancer! I want to donate my hair to cancer."

The woman nodded unsurely. She tied Santana's long, raven-black hair into a ponytail, picked up a pair of scissors that looked more suited to pruning shrubs, and clunk - a chunk of hair fell to the floor. Santana closed her eyes, her heart beating in her throat, and didn't open them even when she felt sweat beading on her forehead.

After fifteen minutes, the woman nudged her. "There you are."

Santana opened her eyes. Her hair was all gone, and it was just her face, jutting out. She looked away before the image became too much to take, but her hair was all around her on the floor. There was nowhere to look. She gave the woman her six dollars, and walked out, tears burning in the corners of her eyes.

It wasn't the hair exactly.

Two months ago, she had been flipping through magazines in a dentist's office and came across a beautiful hairstyle for prom. She usually wasn't into things like that, but it was unique and gorgeous, and it became a symbol.

By the time it was prom, she would tell her family she was a lesbian, and she would find a girl to go to prom with. She'd put her hair up, like in the magazine.

Her hair...her hair all over the floor, black curls all over the floor...

This was her abuela's fault. This whole charade was her abuela's fault. If she'd accepted her, she could have kept going to her own high school. She could have gone to prom. She could have kept her hair.

* * *

><p>Santana had been stealing things since she was little. Tiny pale mints out of restaurants. Candy bars and headbands. CDs. Computers. Gold watches.<p>

And Westerville was a very trusting community.

"Hi, Ma'am! I'm here to clean for you! Yes, yes, a new cleaning service, first one's a freebie! Oh, great, I'll grab my supplies!"

"Good afternoon, Sir! The Blue Bubble Cleaning Company has selected you for a free house cleaning! Excellent choice, I'll be right in!"

"Hello there, Miss! Did you know the Sparkles In Ohio Cleaning Campaign is giving out free bathroom cleansings? It only takes a minute!"

Santana only had to clean four houses to steal enough for the first term's tuition at Dalton. With that out of the way, she could focus on the real problem.

Her voice. And boobs.

After pawning the items she'd stolen, she went to a gas station and bought some salted nuts and gatorade. She ate the nuts voraciously, and glugged the gatorade in one long swallow. Then she went into the bathroom and looked hard at herself.

"Hi, I'm Sancho."

No, her voice was too contrived.

"Hello. I'm Sancho."

That was better.

"Sancho. I'm Sancho."

Her voice was low to begin with, so she just had to infuse it with some...masculinity. T_hink of steaks. Think of muscle cars. Protein shakes! Hunting! Sadism!_

"I'm Sancho. Nice to meet you."

There it was.

"Sancho!" she shouted, grinning. "Sancho! Sancho! Sancho!"

She had it. Now for the problem of her boobs. Best case scenario, she'd look like she had buff pecs. Worst case, moobs.

She took out a roll of fabric she'd saved from her luggage, took off her shirt and bra, and began to work at wrapping. She knew from the start it would be uncomfortable, but it was very uncomfortable. And silicon implants didn't smoosh down very easily. She was concerned she'd pop them. Should she pop them? No, no...

Eventually, she got her chest to look flat-ish. Not flat, not curvy. It was a compromise between pecs and moobs, and overall, she couldn't hope for much more. All she knew was thank God Dalton required jackets.

She put on a big tee-shirt - one she usually saved for sleeping - and zipped up some old work pants. Then she washed her face, freeing it of all makeup, and walked out of the bathroom.

It was dark by the time she got to Dalton. She'd been given a room number - 307 - and she wandered around suspect hallways until she reached the right room. A light was on inside and she knocked.

"Come in!"

She went in and glanced at her new roommate - or the back of his head. He was sitting at a desk, immersed in a book. She cleared her throat and he turned around.

Okay, so he was handsome. And urbane. And everything a prep-school boy should be. She was...

She realized she hadn't worked out what her attitude would be. Did she have a choice other than awkward? Would she be a tough guy? A quiet kid with a mustache?

"I'm Blaine," said her roommate, extending a hand. His expression spoke volumes. "You must be Sancho."

Santana held out her hand - shit, nail polish!

"This is no-judgement zone," Blaine said earnestly, looking at her nails. Then he laughed. "Sorry. That sounded better in my head."

Okay, he's adorable.

"I came here so no one would judge me," she grunted. "Bad school experiences."

"Oh, me too!" said Blaine, straddling his chair and resting his chin on the top of it. _Oh no, he wants to talk! Oh God, oh God_. "What was bothering you at school?"

"I wanted to go to hair school," Santana invented. "I was made fun of, because people thought it was weird for a straight guy to want to go to hair school."

"That's not weird. Hair is beautiful." Blaine grinned. "So now you're at Dalton. Still thinking of hair school?"

"No. I don't know." Santana sat down uneasily on one of the twin beds. "I'm sorry, but I'm tired. Do you mind if I go to bed?"

"Of course not. I'll turn on my book light."

Santana went across the hall into the bathroom - the coast was clear - and changed into pajamas. She held her arms tight across her chest until she was safely under the covers.

After a moment, she said, "Blaine? I'm really sorry about taking over this room. I know it was last minute."

"Don't worry," said Blaine. "You seem nice."

Santana pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes. When she realized it was the first time she'd been in a real bed for a week, it took everything she had not to cry.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: What do you think? (That means review!)**


	2. Buttons

Santana's first day at Dalton was eye-opening.

It wasn't the disguise that caused the problem. Santana had that down to an art almost immediately. No. It was the preppiness.

"Just be polite," advised Blaine. "There's a lot of white privilege here, and even if no one's racist, you might have to work a little harder that the rest of us."

It wasn't anything she wasn't used to, but it was somehow magnified by the presence of blazers and ivory busts and quotes by Nathaniel Hawthorne or whoever inscribed on the walls. All the boys looked at her curiously, and judging from their expressions, it wasn't because she was feminine. It was because of her skin color. Was she going to run away from one form of discrimination right into another?

Her dorm section was especially bad. Everyone looked like they belonged on Nickelodeon, and then there was Kurt Hummel. Dios mio was that boy pale. He was almost translucent. Like those strange frogs with skin so thin their organs were on display for the world.

She'd first run into him on her way to class. He was lingering in his doorway, trying to fix something on his blazer. She and Blaine passed him - then Blaine, who had a psychotic need to be chivalrous - turned around.

"Kurt! Something wrong?"

Kurt's pale skin went very pink, and his eyes went wide. Santana stared briefly at their color.

"One of these buttons came off," Kurt said. "I can fix it."

"What's with the voice?" Santana said, before she could help it. "Do you have mono or something?"

Kurt's eyes suddenly turned stormy gray.

"What's with the bubble lips?" he snarked. "Were you chasing bees again, Fido?"

Santana bared her teeth. "Who do you think you are?"

"I'm Kurt Hummel," said Kurt. "And let me tell you, I've been dealing with boys like you for years, so I hope you don't think you're special for noticing me." He walked away - it was actually a strut - and he looked over his shoulder. "Have a nice day, Love!"

Santana and Blaine stood stock-still in the hallway. Blaine was slack-jawed, eyes fixed on Kurt's retreating figure. Santana was shivering in dislike. And confusion. Had she just bullied him? Had she just done what her abuela did to her?

She looked at Blaine for support, but he was still glassy-eyed. She elbowed him and he came to with a "huh?" and she stared at him in complete confusion.

"What on earth is wrong with you?"

"I think I have a sewing kit..." he mumbled in response. "I should go get it..."

"No you shouldn't," said Santana. "Believe me, a boy like that already has a sewing kit. Probably a neat little travel-size one in his pocket. And he clearly doesn't deserve anyone's help."

"So he's a little sassy," said Blaine. "You were rude too. You really shouldn't have said that about his voice."

"I was surprised," Santana said. "Let's just get to class."

* * *

><p>Kurt tucked into the bathroom before going to French class. He threw himself into one of the stalls, breathing hard, tears starting to pool in his eyes. He knew how to handle bullies in the moment. All the panic and hurt came later.<p>

He wasn't doing anything wrong. Was he doing something wrong? Maybe he deserved it. Maybe he was a genetic mistake.

All he could do was live. And try. And live again tomorrow, and try again tomorrow, too. This was his life, and it was better than it used to be. That's what he had to hold on.

But it was still hard. Sometimes it felt impossibly hard. It was simply too much to admit that discrimination lived everywhere, in everyone, in one form or another. Everyone had something to draw on - a mean father, a small dinner, a dream delayed - that armed them with hate. And he wasn't an exception. He just wished he didn't turn so much of the hate in on himself.

But where else could it go? Did he want to turn into one of the bullies that had terrorized him in Lima? Did he want to be the person he was this morning?

He sniffled and looked at his shoes. He would be late if he didn't move soon.

He'd just put his hand on the slide lock when the door creaked open. He stood frozen, and then took a big breath and stepped out. It was Blaine. They met eyes in the mirror and Kurt looked down and rushed towards the door.

"Kurt! Kurt, wait!"

Kurt turned in the doorway. "What?" His voice was more severe than he thought it would be. "I need to get to class!"

"I just...I noticed you were...I want you to be okay."

"You don't know me."

"I just hope my roommate didn't cause this."

Kurt swallowed hard. "No. Not really. I'm just not used to this place yet."

"Well, listen if...if you ever want to talk to someone..." Blaine's confidence finally caught up with his beating heart. "I know how much harder it is for guys like us, and you look like you could use a friend. We could go get coffee sometime. If you like coffee of course."

Kurt smiled. "I love coffee." Then he squinted. "Guys like us?"

"I don't want to make assumptions, but you're gay too, aren't you?"

Kurt blinked and said, without hearing himself, "Yes."

Blaine Anderson is gay? Did he just ask me out for coffee? No, no. He said friend. This is friendly.

"And I could fix your jacket," Blaine went on.

"Oh I - I really can fix it," said Kurt. "I want to be a designer. I know my way around a needle and thread."

"I know you can do it," said Blaine. "I'd like to do it for you anyway."

Kurt looked at Blaine warily. Then he set his bag down and took off his blazer, feeling naked and slightly thrilled. He wasn't used to that combination.

He handed the blazer to Blaine.

"Here," he said softly. "Thanks."

Blaine smiled hugely. "No problem. Have a good day, Kurt."

"You too," replied Kurt, leaving with one last look over his shoulder.

* * *

><p>"You're late," hissed Santana as Blaine sat down at the desk next to her.<p>

He was late. He couldn't carry around an extra blazer all day, so he had to run up to his room to hang it up, and lost nearly ten minutes.

"I know," he said. "I had to-"

Mr. Hunts voice broke through the air. "Late, Anderson. What delayed you?"

"I was helping out a friend."

"Hope I'm the next friend you help out!" shouted Sebastian Smythe, a junior. Laughter erupted in the back of the room.

"That's enough," sighed Mr. Hunt, which did nothing to quell the noise. "Your friends come after school work, Mr. Anderson."

"Sounds like his friends come first!" crowed Sebastian.

"It sounds like," said Mr. Hunt, "you'd like to go to the principal's office."

Sebastian grinned, got to his feet and swaggered to the door. "I really wish Dalton hadn't abolished corporal punishment. I know how much Principal Mathers likes to get kinky."

"Office! Now!" roared Mr. Hunt.

Sebastian swept out the door. Santana made a face.

"Is he for real?" she whispered to Blaine, and he bit his lip to hide a smirk.

Mr. Hunt wiped his brow. "I apologize for the interruption. This week we'll start off on functions..."

Blaine stared at his notebook. He knew how to do functions. He had a secret love of math, and had learned everything before even coming to Dalton. But Dalton required a certain succession of classes, and Blaine had to go through them like everybody else. This policy gave him a dangerous amount of time to daydream, and today, he couldn't get Kurt's eyes out of his mind.

They were like bioluminescent oceans.

* * *

><p>Santana didn't realize lunch was only an hour and couldn't believe five classes a day was a normal schedule, and when she learned it was also a requirement to be in at least three extracurriculars, she nearly quit. Her old high school might have had teen pregnancy and drug distribution, but she liked it better. It wasn't so demanding.<p>

It was constant hiding anyway. Maybe she would always be in constant hiding. She couldn't be herself anywhere. She wondered if she should have gone to a big city like she was originally planning, but she didn't feel safe there. All her big talking, all her street smarts...and she was scared to go alone. To go as herself.

Maybe she was actually keeping herself in places she had to hide. Maybe she was afraid of what her real self looked like...

It was something she'd waited a lifetime for. Was it one of those things? Your first kiss will change your life. Your 16th birthday will change your life. Your first car will change your life. It was never true. How would she feel if she finally pulled off the disguise and she felt the same?

It was too terrifying to think about.

She went back to her dorm around three o' clock to re-wrap her boobs - ugh, how had that become a part of daily life? - and found she wasn't alone. Blaine was there, sewing a button on a blazer. She let out a low hiss.

"Are you kidding?" she asked.

Blaine jumped, then gasped in pain.

"A little warning would be nice," he said, showing her his bleeding finger.

"Are you kidding?" she repeated. "He could have fixed it himself."

"Why is everybody so caught up with ability? What about desire to help people?"

"It's not desire! It's psychopathy!"

"You've known me a day," said Blaine. "I don't know if you should be deciding whether I'm a psychopath yet. Besides, you're pretty weird yourself."

"How am I weird?"

"You're hard to read," said Blaine. "You send off this vibe that's a little scary."

"Well, you send off the whole white horse vibe, and frankly, people find it patronizing."

"I think he needs a friend."

"See - that," said Santana. "That's what I mean. You don't know him."

Blaine's face fell a little. "I know. I'm trying my best." He looked at the jacket. "Maybe this was stupid."

"Definitely," said Santana. "What if you mangle it?"

"I won't mangle it! I know how to sew!"

"Does everyone know how to sew?" Santana erupted. "I don't know how to sew and I'm a g-"

She stopped herself.

"You're a...?" prompted Blaine.

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Look, could you get out of here? I need to change."

"First rule of dorms," said Blaine as he got up to leave. "Don't alienate your roommate."

* * *

><p>Kurt was in love with history - specifically, British history filled with meaningless facts. Something about royalty struck a chord in him. And two words: Pippa Middleton.<p>

But he was too distracted to be excited, because there was a jacket requirement, and he didn't have his jacket. It was still with Blaine.

He glanced around the classroom and noticed everyone had complied - well, except Sebastian, who looked like he'd spent the last hour in a cramped broom closet with his boyfriend - and was almost taken over with anxiety. Mrs. Garrett was a sweet lady, but she was strict about uniform. If she saw Kurt in his so-called shirtsleeves, he would be in trouble.

Blaine walked in at the last possible second - Mrs. Garrett was on his heels - and sat down next to Kurt. He handed him the blazer.

"Good as new," he said.

Kurt smiled and put it on. "That was really sweet of you."

Blaine grinned back. "No problem."

Kurt made a contented squeaking noise, then looked straight ahead. You just made your mmm chocolate noise about him and his jacket heroism.

"So," he said, voice still a little too high, "why weren't you in the last class? Don't say you hate the history of the British Empire."

"I'm not good at it, but I definitely don't hate it," said Blaine. "I missed the last class because of my brother. He took me out to lunch and got distracted because the waitress was pretty, and he wouldn't leave the restaurant."

Kurt laughed. "That sounds like my step-brother."

"Is he older?" asked Blaine.

Kurt shook his head. "He's younger, but he always calls me his little brother, because he's so tall. I used to have the biggest crush on him. He's straight. Like, so straight. But he was the only person that ever listened to me."

"I'll listen to you," said Blaine.

Mrs. Garrett entered the room before the boys had time to smile at each other.

The class fell quiet. Time passed slowly for Blaine, quickly for Kurt, who was taking as many notes as he possibly could and answering every question.

"Which king was famous for owning a polar bear?"

Kurt's hand shot up. "Henry the Third. It swam in the Thames."

Blaine's mind drifted to freshman history, at the effort it took to get a good grade. History just didn't stick with him. And the History of the British Empire especially wasn't sticking. Which castle what? Which king who?

At the end of class, Mrs. Garrett held Kurt back. Blaine paused in the doorway to listen.

"Would you be interesting in tutoring? You could hang a sign-up sheet right outside of the door."

Kurt hesitated. "I'm new. I don't think anyone would be comfortable..."

"You're a junior. There's nothing wrong with you tutoring."

"I don't think I'd be taken seriously," said Kurt.

"I take you seriously," said Mrs. Garrett. "And I can't let you refuse. We don't have anyone who knows this material as well as you do."

Kurt nodded. "I guess I could. I'll post a sign-up sheet."

"Excellent," said Mrs. Garrett, beaming. "And maybe you could help Mr. Anderson. He's really such a bright boy, but I've caught him falling asleep more than once. I'm sure you could find a way to make history more interesting for him."

"I can try," said Kurt, and walked out of the classroom.

Blaine popped out from behind the door. "Will I have to call you Mr. Hummel?"

Kurt jumped a mile. "Don't do that!"

"Sorry," said Blaine, walking with him. "I just couldn't help overhearing."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "No, you don't have to call me Mr. Hummel."

"Professor Hummel?"

"That sounds like a Nazi doctor name."

"What if I said Mr. Hummel, but I said it with a British accent?"

"Just Kurt is fine," Kurt said warmly, putting his hand lightly on Blaine's arm. He smiled. "Thanks again for fixing my jacket."

Then he walked into another classroom, leaving Blaine staring.

* * *

><p>Santana sat down outside Principle Mathers office, across from Sebastian Smythe. They met eyes briefly and both looked away.<p>

Then he said, "In trouble too?"

She shook her head. "I have to take care of some paperwork."

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like a girl?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like a burrowing, hairless rodent?"

"I'm serious," said Sebastian. "Are you a tranny?"

"You really shouldn't take everything you've got for granted," snapped Santana. "You should be thanking Jesus that you aren't at a regular public school, because there, you'd have had your ribs removed from you body and hung from the ceiling like wind chimes."

"Oh, so I should stop ragging on people because I'm different too?" asked Sebastian. "What fun is there in that?"

"It's a little thing called respect," said Santana. "And if you keep trying to sleep with my home boy Blaine, I'll cut you."

Sebastian smirked. "I believe you."

Santana smirked too. "So why are you still here?"

"Principal Mathers said he needed a few minutes of silent meditation before he dealt with me. What he's really doing is trying to find his Valium..."

"Why haven't you been expelled yet?" she wondered.

"My parents are loaded," he said. "They built the entire Jefferson Wing."

"Do you live here in Westerville?"

"Right on Walnut Hill," said Sebastian. "Big flagstone house."

Santana smiled - a criminal smile - and sat back in her chair.

* * *

><p>Kurt got back to his dorm late. He had stayed in the library until midnight, making sign-up sheets and graphing a complicated equation. Jeff was asleep - there was a bowl of macaroni and cheese rising and falling on his chest - and the room smelled like feet.<p>

Kurt sighed. He hung up his jacket, and just then, a slip of paper fell out. He unfolded it.

COURAGE.


End file.
